😦

So long, Monica . . .

Now it’s back to work with the Ms. Shers and Barrys of the world, bobbling their heads and arguing with me about who got to the printer first…

I wish I had Monica’s job, hosting book parties in cities around the country…  (Meeting guys).

Time to roll up my sleeves and dive into this latest batch of cost cards and not let the single tear that wants to roll down my cheek slip out.

Eeeeeeeeekkkkkk, well the pool sure was looking good today!  We did in fact run into the Hull fellas, and I have to say that, um, Jake…  The axe man…. Jake…. Is just about the finest specimen I’ve laid eyes upon over the past few YEARS.  He’s got that swarthy quality, black hair a little shaggy, a tendril or two, 5’o’clock shadow, tan… A TAN.

I swear I moved here just for the dudes.

Jake and I chatted.  Krissie said she’d hook it up.  

What Bloggeur?

 

Anyway, I had to peace from the pool because Mon-Mon texted saying she needed to get into the apartment.

“Krissie!  I have have to leave.”

“Charliiiiiiii, NOoooooo!!  Stay! Why are you going to leave??”  she tugged on my forearm, linking arms with me.  “We’re just about to seal the deal with these three dudes, one for each of us!” she muttered out of the side of her mouth.

“Sorry, gal, Mon was at the doctor and she needs to get in my house.  She doesn’t have keys.”

“Ugh, FINE, go!”

I make the 15 minute walk back to my apartment, expecting to find Monica waiting on the stoop.  The block is a ghost town, as usual. I stand on the stoop and look around. I look at my phone.  No texts. I call Monica. Straight to voicemail.

I walk up to the second floor and enter my bedroom through the stairwell.

“Charli,” Mon raises an arm from the bed.  She’s in a ruffly cotton tank top nightgown, covers at her waist.  “Blake let me in.”

“I solved all the problems.”

“Oh yeah?

“Yeah…. The doctor gave me an inhaler and I deleted my Myspace.”

Monica is curled up next to me in bed.

Since this is a closed-audience group, I don’t think she will mind that I share with you all how this weekend has been going.

As I had left off, I was en route to my usual haunt, Graham Avenue.  Daddy’s was poppin’. In trusty fashion, the Margavezas were flowing, eyeliner a-plenty on the doe-eyed gals wondering why they had never invented that drink.  Tiny universes were convening in every nook and cranny, crammed into circular banquettes, resting near a fireless mantle, weaving around the expansive horseshoe-shaped bar.  Everywhere and nowhere there could be someone you maybe know or maybe don’t know. This turned out to be an evening of knowing.

Did everyone come to Williamsburg this weekend?

Even Whitey from Philly made an appearance, guest of Mike Industrial, natch.  

I had a great time.  I shot the shit with everyone I know– all my girlfriends in Brooklyn, Mon-Mon, Whitey, Mike Industrial, then…  All these Philly people showed up! Then… Blake showed up. And THEN, my frenemy and cronie from high school showed up.  (They are a duo).

I lost Mon-Mon in the fold.  The bar is very dark and wooden.  It’s very easy to blend into the background.  That’s actually my favorite thing about Williamsburg- all of the bars are pitch black.  If a place is not pitch black, you can’t trust it.

Eh, well, you know how I am, I wandered off to the backyard, got into some sort of joke contest with Whitey, and he offered to drive me home.  I didn’t see Mon anywhere, but figured she was fine because she had run into all of her coworkers!

It was a luxury to ride in Whitey’s band van, A ‘99 Ford E-150, which was not too junked out, but definitely full of stuff.  In a flash we were at the corner of Meserole Avenue and Dobbin Street. He gave me a gentlemanly hug and raise of the hat, and I headed inside.

 

Unlocking the door to my bedroom from the stairwell, “Charli…,” calls a raspy croak from a nest of blankets on the floor on the opposite side of the room.

“Mon?”

“Charli.  Yes, I’m here,” she sighed.

“OMG, that Whitey is such a gentleman…” I swoon, stumbling to the bed.  “Mon, what are you doing on the floor?”

“I’m done.  I’m done with them all.”

“Done what?”

“I just annihilated my friends list.”

“What?”

“Everybody’s gone.  Well, not you. And not my sisters.”

“Ummm…  what are you talking about?”

“I just.  Sorry. I can’t breathe well.  I’m exhausted. Anyway, most people are chumps so I DELETED them all!  So long, suckers!”

“Ohhhhhhh, you’re deleting people on Myspace?”

“Sam Heighten?  Good bye! Craig Caldonia?  Good bye! Maxine the bartendress?  Good bye!”

“Um, what is going on?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.  Nite nite.”

Monica is here and live in the flesh!  She was working a cool book party and was doing such a good job, hobnobbing with Jim Jarmusch and David Byrne.

We hung out at Piano’s after, and now I have stopped home to find Blake and go meet les gals at Daddy’s.

Happy Friday!!!

Barry tells me I look groovy in my Built By Wendy eagle dress, which I am wearing over bleached Built By Wendy denim flares and my favorite Jeffrey Campbell electric blue sandals.  Summer office dressing has much more leniency than any other time of year.

“Cash, don’t you think Charli looks groovy today?” he says, swiveling in his chair towards Cash’s stance, giving me a nod of approval and bewilderment.

“You know, Barry, I think you’re kind of right…!  Today Charli is, in fact, looking pret-ty groovy!”

Cash adds a Curb Your Enthusiasm reference wherever he can.

“See Charli?  Cash agrees! Sometimes you always remind me of acid …rock … ,” he relishes, diving into his next cost card, replacing his glasses and pencil behind ear post-lunch, and turning his expression into a believably serious computer tunnel gaze.

Blah blah rest of weekend, blah blah hanging with Blake, and none of this matters because, yes blog lady cohorts, MONICA is coming this week.

!!!!  IIIII CAAAANNNNNNOOOTTT WAIIIIITTTT !!!!  Mon-mon, how I miss you!

All the way from San Francisco Bay, she claims to have a ticket.  You better not flake!

“Charli!” Blake parts the curtains and opens the French doors between our bedrooms a crack.  She peeks her head in. “OMG, how was it?”

“We met for a beer at Black and White Bar.  Then we went to Joe’s Pizza. Then we went to his apartment and watched a Netflix.”

“What did you watch?”

“Trees Lounge.”

“And…..?” she said, dashing over and crawling into my bed.

“We cuddled.  Sort of kissed.  He slept in sweatpants and a hoodie and gave me a set too.”

Blake looked at me sleepily, quizzically.

“I got home at 10:45 a.m.,” I said apologetically, feeling embarrassed that I did not have a rollicking night to recall.

“So how did it leave off?”

“I don’t know….  He had to go to the gym.  On Saturdays he does 3 hours at the gym.”

We look at each other blankly.  

“I DVR’ed Taxicab Confessions!”

“Ok, well, bye,” I say, twisting my right foot a little, the left planted firmly on the ground.  The BQE quietly whizzes behind me.

“Bye,” he says with basically a half salute, squinting in the sunlight.  He awkwardly leans in and gives me a peck on the mouth.

I spin in my vintage woven Brazilian leather flats and start on Hicks Street toward Congress Street, where make the trek to the G train.  I cross the BQE and the over the east side of Hicks Street, looking in windows of brownstones, le petit Cobble Hill Park to my right.  I make the little left on Court Street and then the little right on Bergen Street, which I follow up to Smith Street and then catch the G train.

To my surprise, the G arrives momentarily and stops in front of me.  I see that I have placed myself at an ideal position where I do not have to run to make the train, as the G is half the length of the typical MTA subway train.

The train is sparsely filled.  I sit on an orange fiberglass seat, trying to affect the manner of someone who is not wearing last night’s clothes and makeup.

I exit at Nassau Ave and walk to the end of the platform to take the Norman Ave exit.  I walk up Manhattan Avenue and turn left on Meserole Avenue. I think about the elegant brownstones with views into stylish living rooms that line the walk to L.B.’s place, while I take in my view of Eastern Bloc style Polish-owned mom-and-pop shops, most with paper decorations and fake flowers accenting their windows.  I descend Meserole Ave, passing the entrance to Club Europa, a subterranean Polish travel agency, and a post office. Our spot is on a block where residential property becomes commercial property. The view from my bedroom, the front two windows of a railroad twin apartment building, faces a 5 story brick building, of nondescript business or commercial function.

Happy Friday, Le Bloggeur has invited me chez lui tonight to “watch a Netflix.”  My weekend just got interesting!

Gowanus Yacht Club indeed!

TT sighting!  GAH! I hid from him!  I think I covered it ok.  I just pretended to be really nonchalant, tossing my head back a lot, leaning forward and letting the sides of my hair cover my eyes, and making sure Le Bloggeur’s (George Washington-shaped) head obstructed any view of me.

Aside from that, the Comedy Central mailroom seems to have an equally complex hierarchy to that of Simons Jewel Co.

Then a walk to the train, over the Gowanus Canal.

And that’s that.  *arms crossed*